I Can See You
by MycroftsAngelEyes
Summary: John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person... Sherlock thinks he's normal and 'pedestrian' but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep..." HALLOWEEN FIC!
1. Part One

**Title:** "I Can See You..."

**Genre:** _Horror, Supernatural, H/C, Slash_

**Fandom:**_ Sherlock_

**Pairings/Characters:** _John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty, Harry Watson, Mummy and Daddy Watson, other ;)_

**Warnings:** _PG-13 I think for the most part..._

**Word Count: **_Oh..._

**Summary:** _"John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he's in his mid-thirties and running around London like he's some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he's normal and 'pedestrian' but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep..."_

**Author's Note:** _Well this should be fun for me to write since I'm making it up as I go along (oh I love my mind!) and I should be doing Chem revision so... this is far more fun in my opinion! I thought that since we're coming up to Halloween and such that I should get into the spirit of things and do something spooky! _

**P.S:** _The only difference between this little 'verse and the Sherlock!Verse is the fact that I've made John into the oldest sibling (because it makes it SO MUCH EASIER for me!)_

_Tell me what you think of this please people and I hope you all enjoy it, Kasey =]_

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"**I Can See You" Part One**

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John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he's in his mid-thirties and running around London like he's some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he's normal and 'pedestrian' but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...

**...**

**...**

When Gemma Myers was in her late teens, just a month away from turning nineteen, she spent a night with her boyfriend which in turn resulted in her winding up married and with a small baby attached to her arm during every waking moment. Gemma Myers, before that fateful night, had been considered somewhat odd but ultimately kind and loveable; as was the girl's nature. She was the type of young lady that would help the oldies to cross the street with their shopping, tend to an injured child that had fallen off their bike and skinned a knee, and offer assistance to a number of people regardless of their problems and professions. All-in-all Gemma Myers was the perfect girl, the perfect daughter and, most importantly, the perfect friend.

The young fellow with whom she had been seen holding hands with constantly had a less than reputable reputation, but all the locals knew that he was just a young lad who had lost his way due to the lack of a father-figure in his life. He was rugged and good-looking in a way not unlike that of James Dean; which needless to say made him into quite the love-interest of a fair number of star-struck girls. This James Dean lookalike ran with one of the big gangs of the city they lived in and was fairly high-up in regards to their social-structure; bearing the rank of being Second In Command of the gang and holding the rather disturbing nickname of Tommy Gunner. Obviously a nod to the favourite weapon of the Mafia; the Tommy Gun.

Together these two produced quite the beautiful, if a little plain, child who retained qualities from both of its parents; most notably the startling blue eyes of his father and the gentle blondie-brown of his mother's fair hair. What was the most unusual thing about this small child was that it never cried after the initial shock of being unceremoniously dragged from the comforting warmth of the uterus; even when said child had been teething no sound ever passed its lips bar a whimper or whine of discomfort.

Though it was unusual both of its parents merely assumed that it merely a quirk of their child; after all, it was not uncommon for a child to have a quirk or two that they would eventually grow out of. However, it was uncommon, and something unnerving, that this child had so many little quirks which made themselves known as he continued to grow.

And so it seemed that the life of one John Watson would never be what is considered 'normal'.

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When John was five he, seemingly suddenly, developed the ability to speak; which wouldn't have been so strange had it not been for the simple fact that everytime he had even opened his mouth no sound had escaped. Absolutely nothing.

So on the day that John, or Johnny-boy as his father affectionately called him, began to speak his mother had been quietly preparing him a birthday cake, as she had done for the last four years, and as result cut her finger on the large kitchen knife held in her hand as her son uttered the first words she'd ever heard from his mouth, "There's a little boy standing next to you mammy."

As Gemma Watson dropped the knife on the side, and hastily stemmed the blood running down her hand, she looked at her son and then down at her side. She froze at the sight before her because there was no 'little boy' anywhere near her except her own son.

And that was the first day that Gemma Watson realised that her son was more 'odd' than she had ever been.

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**...**

Perhaps it was the fact that her first child was 'abnormal' or that Gemma Watson felt that he needed a sibling so as to distract John from his increasingly disturbing comments about little things; like dancing children in the middle of the M1 or the old lady who lived down the road sitting in their kitchen when she'd died a month ago, but by the time John turned six he suddenly discovered that he now had a little sister.

To some degree John didn't like his little sister, she was loud and messy and constantly threw things at him, but he also felt very protective of her; moreso than he did of his toys that he kept hidden to stop the 'other' children from hurting them.

And maybe, in hindsight, Gemma Watson realised that having another child wasn't all that good an idea; especially after the steps John took to keep her safe.

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_It was a sunny day and Gemma and Thomas; Tommy Gun's Christian name, decided that it would be a good idea to take their two children for a stroll in the nearby park; after all, there was nothing stopping them from being a family apart from John's occasional comments. After a promise made to his mother; resulting in John agreeing to not breathe a word about 'other' children and people that weren't meant to be there, and they were off to the park. _

_Harriet was gurgling away in her pram and shaking her toy rattle which had been John's when he'd been a baby; though, unlike Harriet, John had never shook it. Baby John had simply gripped it in an impossibly strong grip as though he were terrified of something. Gemma and Thomas were walking hand-in-hand whilst they both pushed the pram with their free hand and John trailed behind them, looking at the ground and scuffing his shoes on the soft tarmac path._

_When John looked up to see where he was going he almost shouted out at what he saw, but he'd promised his mammy and he didn't want to break his promise, so instead of shouting out he hurried up to the pram and gripped the side of it; ignoring his mammy and daddy asking him what he was doing, and whispered at his sister quiet enough so that his mammy couldn't hear him, "cry Harry, cry please."_

_And cry she did, baby Harriet began to bawl and sob as Gemma hurriedly swept her out of the pram and into her arm whilst John was told off for scaring Harriet by his daddy; but Harriet was safe, which was what mattered to John. But John wasn't safe, he never was._

_As his daddy pulled him home, his mammy trailing behind pushing the pram and trying to calm down the sobbing Harriet, John felt clammy hands pull his other arm and he felt like he was being pulled apart even though he was still moving in the direction of home. Sharp and tough nails dug into his arm and he whimpered quietly because John never cried, crying was bad, so no-one noticed that it wasn't his daddy's grip on his arm that he was whimpering at but rather the trails of scratch-marks which ran the length of his right arm. _

_By the time they arrived home John's arm felt like it was on fire and, when his daddy ordered him to his room, John didn't pause or try to explain anything as he fled and hid under his bed; gripping his favourite action-figurine tightly in his little hands as though it could protect him._

_It couldn't._

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On John's fourteenth birthday his parents treated him and took him to Alton Towers Amusement-Park for the day; he enjoyed the train journey they had to take to get there because his dad had complained about the cost of fuel. He had spent the majority of the journey watching people, and thinking about silly things like children in cupboards and dancing bears; his mam had often said that John had the "most unusual imagination" but John liked his imagination. He was the best in his English class because of his imagination, and in science he was the only one to figure out the answers quickest; but that might be because he had mithered his dad until he bought in the O-Levels; no they didn't do O-Levels anymore, the GCSE-revision book he'd seen in the book shop over a month ago.

His dad had been checking his watch every few minutes and John knew without having to ask that his dad was worried about what was happening at 'work'; John knew that his dad's line of work wasn't something he was allowed to discuss with people, especially the other kids who had copper's for parents. His mam on the other hand had been looking out of the train window, watching the fast-moving trees, fields, cars and motorways passing them by; though John supposed that it was them passing the motorways by really. He avoided looking at his mam, she wasn't well and she didn't want dad to know; but she forgot that John could see it and he hated that she was hiding it from dad. But he had promised his mam that he wouldn't talk about the things he just knew, and he wasn't the type of person to break a promise; so he never did.

When they arrived at Alton Towers his dad gave him two, two, twenty-pound notes and told him to be careful, to not spend too much, and be at the cafe by four o'clock. John was excited but he knew his dad wouldn't be happy with him if he didn't listen so he recited everything his dad had told him before he ran off to buy his entry ticket and have the best day of his life.

And it was the best day of life; up until he went on the Skyride to get to the Forbidden Valley.

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**...**

_He clung onto the seat he was sitting in as the cabin shook and swung around almost crazily; he wasn't crying but he wasn't exactly calm either and he was sure that he was whimpering in fear. It was too high up, it was moving too much, it wasn't safe and he couldn't move. He was terrified, for more than one reason._

_Inside the cabin was a shadow, and not the normal type of shadow either; it was so dark that he thought a black hole looked brighter than it, and it was so, so cold inside the cabin even though it was a healthy 22 degrees Celsius outside. He whimpered again and tried to shrink into the seat as the shadow reached for him; he was so scared, he wanted his dad and his mam, he wanted to be at home. Safe._

_When the cabin had first stuttered to a halt John had seen out the window that some of the park attendants were trying to fix the ride and get him down but he knew, he just knew that they wouldn't get him down anytime soon. When the shadow had appeared, oozing into the cabin through the edge of the door John realised that he wouldn't be the same as he was before ever again._

_A dark, cold and paralysing touch on his left ankle made John gasp and whine as he tried to scurry away from the shadow, but it was so so large and he was so so small that he had nowhere to scurry away too. He was penned in as the shadow reached for him, closer and closer, and John felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest and dive out the door. His breathing was rapid and haggard as a wispy-tentacle reached out and almost caressed his cheek causing him to flinch._

_Though John had never cried in all his life, never screamed any louder than a whisper, when the wispy-tentacle became thicker and moved across to cover his mouth and nose he screamed for all his worth; but it didn't do him a damn of good._

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_The cabin finally touched the terra firma over an hour after it had strangely frozen mid-way and as the door was prised open a strange cold sensation ran along the arms of the half-dozen people gathered around the door. The sight that met the eyes of the rescuers made them want to curse who had developed the Skyride because a small boy, who looked like he was barely twelve, was huddled in the corner furthest away from the door and looked absolutely terrified. As the only female person in attendance stepped into the cabin, thinking that she was the best to comfort the terrified child, she was startled when he began to scream at her and tell her to "GET AWAY! NOO! STOP!"_

_She wisely backed up and, once she was back outside the cabin, the boy calmed down away. Giving the boy a few minutes to calm himself, and hopefully realise he was safe, one of the rescuers decided to give it a go. He took a tentative step into the cabin, pausing and waiting for the boy to shout and scream at him, but all he got was a tear-stained stare filled with fear and hurt. It took him a minute and a half to reach the boy and crouch down so that he was on eye-level with him. _

_Not knowing what to say to the positively catatonic child the man fumbled about in his pockets until he came across a lollipop; which he'd forgot to give to his daughter this morning before he'd left for work, and offered it to the boy. It took the boy nearly five minutes to work up the courage to reach out and take the lollipop, but not before he whispered staring at the rescuer, "You're too nice mister; you might get hurt one day."_

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When John finished high school; obtaining some of the best results in the entire country, he positively had his pick of the colleges in and around London; but he choose the one furthest away from his home and announced three weeks into his summer holidays that he was moving out.

Both of his parents argued with him, declaring him too young to leave home so soon, but he was adamant and eventually they gave in; with the compromise that he come round for Sunday dinner and holidays and the like. So, with a spring in his step John hurried up to his room in order to start packing; but he got side-tracked by the sound of giggling coming for his sister's room.

Though Harriet, or Harry as she liked to be called, was seven years younger than John he still saw her as the baby he'd protected that day in the park, so everytime he heard her giggling at something he always checked to make sure it wasn't something bad, wasn't something dangerous.

He poked his head around her bedroom door, which she never closed properly, and noticed that she was playing with her dolls; and he shook his head at his paranoia, about to leave her be until he caught sight of a particularly creepy doll which was off to the side of Harry's favourites. He didn't like it, he felt like it was watching him with its cat-like amber eyes and he shivered at the feeling of being stared right through.

He silently left Harry to her games and packed his room quickly; binning what he didn't want and giving Harry the rest. Somehow though that creepy doll of Harry's wound up in the bin along with John's paper-plane models; but Harry was so happy with her very own model spitfire that she didn't care about the doll, and John left his childhood home feeling like he was starting afresh.

Mostly.

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**...**

College was different for him, he finally found that he could fit in with one group or another; so different to high school where he'd had to be a person he really wasn't, and he excelled in his classes. All the information given to him made him feel alive and happy, side-tracking him and giving him something other than the shadows and 'others' to focus on for more than five minutes.

Everything was good and fun for him; at least it was up until his second year and they had the annual Halloween Party. Somehow one of the students had conned their parents into letting the party be hosted at their hotel; which according to the local guides was haunted by some nasty beings.

John hadn't wanted to go, he'd wanted to go home and visit his family; make sure they were safe on Hallow's Eve, but his friends had dragged him to the party, even going so far as speaking to his parents and getting their consent to literally kidnap him.

Maybe if his friends hadn't been so determined none of it would have happened. Maybe...

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"_Come on John! You never come out with us anymore!" Haley complained as she strolled across the landing clad in only her underwear and pouting like a petulant child that had been denied its favourite toy, "You always get like this 'round now! If I didn't know better I'd think you were experiencing menopause."_

_Mike laughed humorously from the front room where he and Adele were waiting, though John knew they were fighting to not snog each other to death; they were going to get married and have a couple of kids, he could tell. John shrugged at Haley's comments and answered evenly, "I'm going to stay with my parents and maybe take my sister trick-or-treating Hal."_

"_Oh no you're not mister!" Haley declared as she strode across his room and grabbed John's chin, making him look up at her as she pulled his head around, "You are going to get changed into the costume I made you especially, and you are going to come with us to this party; and before you open that pretty mouth of yours to speak, we've already spoken to your parents and they're fine with you going to the party."_

_John flushed in embarrassment at the 'pretty mouth' comment before frowning and asking, his voice sounding rather muffled because Haley still hadn't let go of his chin, "What do you mean, 'spoken to my parents'? You've never even met them!"_

_Haley laughed and placed a kiss on John's brow before letting go of him and slipping onto his lap before he could argue; why he would argue against a positively naked girl sitting on his lap Haley would never know but she guessed that he was either gay, or just a real gentlemen. She ran her fingers through his sandy hair and pretended to not notice how John almost purred like a cat in response, though she did smile as she spoke, "Well, Mike's met them so I simply persuaded him to tell me their number."_

_John's eyes slipped shut against his will and he asked with a single raised eyebrow, "Tell me, is your method of 'persuasion' prosecutable by law? Because if it is then I'm suggesting to Mike, as his solicitor, to press charges."_

_Haley giggled and kissed John's brow again as she said rather seductively, "Well, I suppose I could give you a little show Solicitor; especially since you're being so hard-headed."_

"_If I wasn't hard-headed then I wouldn't have been standing after getting into a punch up with Joey Lathers," John defended himself as he opened his eyes and poked Haley in the side._

"_If I remember correctly John we had to almost carry you home because you couldn't tell how many fingers Mike was holding up," Haley remarked as she poked John back and slipped off his lap, stretching in cat-like fashion and moving across the room again, "anyway, enough chit-chat John, I know you're trying to waste time. I expect you to be ready to go by the time I am."_

"_Yeah, yeah, you're like a dominatrix!" John called out as Haley disappeared down the hallway to her room, but he heard her remark as she shut her bedroom door._

"_Well if I have to get the whip out John you'll be sorry!"_

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"_This is crazy, this is completely insane!" John mumbled under his breath as Haley positively dragged him along, "I look like an absolute pratt!"_

_Haley sighed and looked at John with a frown and John realised what he'd just said, "I uh... I didn't mean... I... you're going to kill me aren't you?"_

"_I'm considering it," Haley answered glaring at him, "you do not look like a pratt and I resent the implication that my artistic abilities are questionable!" she gave his arm a particularly strong tug and John almost landed flat on his face; his pride saved only by Haley's grip on his arm, "now stop complaining!"_

_Silently the pair of them moved down the streets, drawing a couple of odd looks from some of the older locals and found a free taxi which took them to their desired destination. After about half-an-hour they got their first look of the hotel where the party was being held. The moment John clapped eyes on the place he didn't like the look of it; it was fancy and obviously had been restored to perfection, but there are always airs around places like hotels and old houses. The type of air depended on who owned the place, how it was used and when it was built; and John felt like the place was oozing with darkness._

_It made him want to puke._

_He almost did, but Haley poked him in the side and said, "Come on! We should have been there half-an-hour ago!"_

_Pushing back the feeling of discomfort John hurried after Haley, resolutely promising to stick to her like glue for the entire night, but that plan was vetoed the moment the front door opened and Joey Lathers glared at him with murderous intent._

_If John had been like the other students he might had said some sort of quip at Joey, something along the lines of "what? Coming back for seconds? Thought you'd had enough the first time?" but John wasn't like the other students. John was like John and he just ignored Joey; at least he tried to._

_Joey moved aside to let Haley past but he blocked John's path and hissed at him, "You got lucky last time your little shit! I'll knock your teeth down your throat this time," and he shoved John backwards, grinning maliciously._

"_Are you sure you know where my teeth are Joey?" John remarked straightening up, "Since God obviously wasted a good set of teeth shoving them in that arse that people mistake for your face!"_

_Joey's face turned beetroot red and he took a menacing step forward before the sound of someone calling for him echoed from the foyer of the hotel. He paused and looked back before grinning darkly at John and saying harshly, "Just buggar off you little shit, you're not wanted here you creep!"_

_Though John would never admit it, the word 'creep' had always got to him, ever since he'd been a kid and one of the teachers called him a creep because he'd mentioned that the guys marriage was going to fail. He hid his hurt behind a half-smirk as he shrugged and said airily, "No problem Joey, I don't think I want to be anywhere near you; don't know what I could catch," and he turned away, walking back the way he came before Joey could say a word to him._

_If he was honest, he wanted to by with Haley and his mates but he knew that, unless he got into another fist-fight with the plank known as Joey Lathers, he wouldn't be getting anywhere near them for the rest of the night. And thanks to Haley he couldn't exactly show up at his parents since they'd mither him until he told them what was up and why he wasn't at the party. Sometimes he really hated his life; and tonight was no different._

_As he walked back along the path he'd not long chased after Haley on, John thought he saw a silhouette out of the corner of his eye but he didn't turn his head and he didn't think much of it; afterall it was Halloween, it was only normal for his brain to play tricks on him right? _

_Wrong._

_The hairs on the back of his exposed neck rose as a cold breeze wrapped itself around him and he shivered from the cold and the strangely familiar feeling that was starting to develop in his gut; the type of feeling that most experienced when they were watching one of those silly horror movies. Where you know something's going to happen, something bad and gory, but you don't know what exactly. His arms broke out in goosebumps and he quickened his pace, hoping that whatever was freaking him out would just go away!_

_It didn't._

_The light above him flickered ominously and John flinched as the soft and so, so wrong feeling of nails scraped across his lower back. Abandoning any pretences of being calm he broke into a run only to be pulled up short as something grabbed his ankle and he came toppling down to the ground. His head bounced off the tarmac path and he groaned as he rolled over onto his back._

_Stars were flashing in front of his eyes and the light above him gave one last flicker before it died and he was left with the darkness and... it..._

_Cradling his head in his hand John dragged himself to his feet and began to move in the direction that he hoped was the right way; he could feel warm liquid running down his face and he figured he'd cut his head on a stone or something like that. In his panicked state and the lack of light he continuously tripped up over his own feet and loose stones, but just when he thought he was safe something hit him on the back of the head and he went down. Stunned. Confused. Vulnerable._

_As he almost crawled along the ground John was dimly aware of something running down his back, hard enough to make him hiss in pain, and as he rose to his knees something slammed into him and he hit the ground again. This time though he couldn't move. He was trapped. Paralysed. Terrified._

"_Johnny..." a sharp, low hiss whistled around him as he lay on his back, his arms trapped at his sides, and the clouds blocking the light of the moon moved enough for slight silhouettes of the trees around John to be seen. What John saw in the dim light made him want to scream and scream and never stop screaming. But his throat had closed up, he could barely breathe, could barely think he was so terrified._

"_Johnny..." it hissed again and a bolt of pain ran up John's back making him keen in agony as it kept building and building, growing stronger and stronger, burning, boiling, tearing, ripping, scarring and the feeling of nails scraping his neck caused tears to spring to John's eyes. He was trapped, he couldn't move... he was so vulnerable... he couldn't do anything to stop it..._

_The last thing John ever remembered of that night was the feeling of something inside him, digging deep and poisoning him, tainting him in a way he wished he never recalled._

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**...**

When John was twenty-two he thought that it would be a good idea if he joined the army, afterall he considered the job opportunities open to him in a regular hospital to be so boring that the excitement of war sounded like so much fun. He still had a year and a half left of his medical course in St Barts so he did the research, made the right calls and asked the right questions so that the moment he graduated and became a 'real doctor' he could sign up.

And he did, without any hesitation even though his mother was so worried and his father was proud but cautious. It was what he wanted to do and he was stubborn enough to do something once he put his mind to it. He wasn't the smartest person on the planet but he'd took the MENSA test and got some decent results; in the top 5% of the entire population of the planet was no mean feat really.

He signed up two months after he became a certified practitioner of medicine and he remembered hugging his mum and sister goodbye, shaking his dad's hand in a manly way, and hurrying onto the train on his way to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He never looked back and was thankful that he'd decided to join the army.

Things were finally changing for him. Starting to look up.

**...**

**...**

The ten week course gave John all the training he needed to get sent to Afghanistan as part of some of the early waves of the invasion. He didn't really understand the reason why they were invading the country; didn't really care for the reason, he just cared about the fact that he was seeing something other than Sandhurst. He was finally doing something that wasn't boring, that wasn't dull. And he loved it; every single minute. Even when the bullets were whizzing past his head, even when the IEDs were blowing holes in the roads and soldiers to pieces, even when he was treating a young lad who was bleeding out; he loved the sense of exhilaration, the thrill that shot through his body as he fired back with steady hands, ordered soldiers about and saved the lives of countless men.

But it was all too good to be true.

**...**

**...**

"_I'm sorry Doctor but the bullet has done some extensive damage; if I'm frank with you I'm amazed you can move your arm at all," the nameless, faceless military surgeon said to John as he stared at the chart he was holding in his right hand, all John could think was that it was the wrong hand, the wrong hand..._

_John didn't say anything, he couldn't say anything; the army was his life, it was everything to him; mostly all he had. Thirteen years, thirteen fucking years and now he was being invalid home because some bastard had got a lucky shot!_

_For the past thirteen years of his life John had experienced so many different things, sometimes he'd been a little afraid, a little worried about dying, being blown apart, shot, kidnapped and tortured, but none of it compared to the fear he felt when they'd informed him he was being sent home. Home... the UK... England... London... that wasn't home to him, where he was now felt more like home._

_You weren't meant to be hurt in your home... but he'd been hurt here too so, where was his home?_

"_As I'm sure you already know the bullet entered through your back and shattered the clavicle near the Acromioclavicular joint, damaging both of the Coraclavicular ligaments which I'm afraid means that movement of your left arm will never been the same again," the surgeon continued, speaking in a no nonsense tone which served to draw John's attention; he knew what had happened, knew how it had happened and he knew the damage it had caused._

"_When am I leaving?" John asked, his voice sounding so alien to his own ears; he shouldn't sound so calm, so detached, it wasn't normal... but then again, he wasn't normal was he?_

"_Thursday evening; you'll be on the last shipment out along with the others injured in the ambush," the surgeon answered before sighing and saying apologetically, "I'm sorry John mate, but I have other patients to see."_

"_Of course," John nodded and he watched silently as the surgeon went off to check his other patients; he didn't care about anyone else, didn't care about anything, there wasn't anything for him to care about. He was being sent home, and he was absolutely terrified._

**...**

**...**

It took his shoulder near enough six months to heal enough for him to be able to hold something in his left hand without it shaking uncontrollably or being dropped. The strange thing though was the fact that after the first month the specialists had sworn that John's shoulder wound looked like it had been healing for far longer; at least three months. But what was stranger still was that after two months it looked like it was completely healed, but suddenly it was like the man had been shot all over again; the result was it ended up looking like it had only just occurred instead of two months prior.

John hadn't been able to offer any real explanation for the almost chaotic healing process and the strange relapses, for most of the six months he'd been in so much pain that he'd been sedated so as to stop him from curling up in the corner of his private room and wishing to die. Following his wishes the doctors hadn't informed his family of what had happened so when he was finally able to spend a week without being sedated for the pain he decided to give them a call.

Only he discovered that they'd died a month after he'd returned to the UK, informed by a drunken Harry who cursed him and declared that he was "no brother of hers". Later, when he was discharged, he visited their shared grave and broke down; sobbing tears of regret, shame, hate and sorrow because he'd lost his parents when they should have lived another three decades.

Why did they have to die? Why?

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_**To Be Continued In Part Two...

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**Come on people tell me what you think! I'm even working on Part Two as you read this! **

**BTW: I've actually done the research to make this as reliably true as possible (I looked up all sorts of things!) so please tell me what you think... *puppy dog look***


	2. Part Two

**At last I've written it! Hope you like this and tell me what you think of it... please!**

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"**I Can See You" Part Two**

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"Sherlock! Would you please stop that?" John exclaimed as Sherlock ran around the front room of Baker Street with a cape whirling behind him as though he was some deranged Dracula wannabe. The scariest part of the whole get up, in John's opinion at least, was that Sherlock really suited the Dracula look.

"Whatever for John?" Sherlock asked as he spun on the spot and brought the side of the cape up, held in his hand, and covered the lower half of his face with it; if John didn't have his army training he might have shivered and gone running for the hills.

"You look like you're auditioning for the part of Dracula in a revamp of that Hammer Horror with Christopher Lee!" John exclaimed because Sherlock really did look like the Count; it was strangely arousing...

"I don't have the height," Sherlock replied but he let go of the cape and stood staring down at John with a slight smirk on his face, "and I don't think anyone would appreciate me trying to suck them dry."

John blushed at the wording of the statement and scowled at Sherlock as the smirk became more pronounced, "Why the hell are we doing this anyway? I thought you hated holidays."

"And you're quite correct John, I am indeed not too keen on holidays but in this case it would be advantageous to our current case if we attended this fancy-dress party; I also believe Lestrade will be there, and it would be a good idea if we kept an eye on the bumbling fools of Scotland Yard," Sherlock explained in his usually sarcastic drawl as he moved away to the mantle where he picked up the skull and looked at it measuringly.

"You're not taking the skull Sherlock," John declared firmly as he stalked across and snatched it from the younger man's hand, "it's bad enough that you've dressed up like Count Suckula, we don't need you freaking out people by telling them it's a real skull!"

"Count Suckula, really John; I thought you were above such childish things," Sherlock remarked and John repressed the urge to whack him one with the skull as he placed it back on the mantle. Sometimes he hated Sherlock, he really did.

"Just shut up and go get a cab for us, I need to put on my shoes," John growled as he stalked away only to be pulled up short as Sherlock grabbed his arms and encompassed him in the detectives cape, "Sherlock! What are you doing?" John squeaked as he tried to free himself from Sherlock's embrace but the detective had obviously taken John's lessons about self-defense to heart because he couldn't disengage the taller man.

Sherlock dipped his head down low so that his lips brushed behind John's right ear and his breath caught in his throat; damn Sherlock and bloody well damn Halloween. Though he was enjoying Sherlock's attention being focused on him, or more specifically his pulse-point on his neck, John couldn't help but tense-up as he had always done whenever someone showed him such affection. It brought back memories that he wished he could just forget but his mind was anything but forgetful.

Sherlock paused, lifting his head slightly so that his lips were no longer caressing John's now taught flesh, and he asked quietly, "Why do you always do that?" he sounded genuinely curious and if John was right, a little hurt at John's reaction, but John couldn't explain it; how could he explain it! He barely understood it himself!

As John licked his lips, trying to figure out how he could explain, he was saved by the sound of Sherlock's mobile ringing from its place on the kitchen table, "You should answer that," he said, "it's probably Lestrade asking where we are?"

Sherlock didn't want to move, didn't want to let the doctor go but he understood that John didn't want to discuss it; he never did, so Sherlock released John and moved across the front room, as though he was gliding across the ground, and answered the phone as John took several hasty lungfuls of air.

"Holmes, what do you want?" Sherlock drawled his attention not really focused on the speaker on the other side of the call; his eyes followed John as the shorter man sat down on the sofa and tied up the boots he'd bought especially for his costume. It took him almost a minute to realise who he was speaking to, "No Mycroft! I will not be visiting this Halloween! I have plans!"

He hung up before his brother could argue with him and said loudly, "Ready John?"

John's head snapped up, his eyes locking with Sherlock's grey ones and Sherlock was sure he saw something in those blue orbs but it was too fleeting for a self-proclaimed sociopath to identify. John stood up and nodded, "Yep. We'd best get going, or we'll be even later than we already are."

Without another word John disappeared down the stairs and Sherlock, after a moment's hesitation, followed after him, coming down the stairs just in time to see John open the door and hear him ask, "Where exactly is this party?"

"Oh, it's at The Grove Spa Resort," Sherlock answered as he fumbled with his mobile which he couldn't find a pocket for; maybe the costume wasn't all that practical really. Because he was fiddling with his mobile he never saw the way that John started or paled. In fact, he didn't notice anything was wrong until they were half way there and he looked up from his mobile to John; the question of whether or not John had any pockets dying on his lips as he observed the doctor.

"John?" He asked quietly, worry colouring his voice enough for it to be noticed by John but John just shook his head; he didn't want to talk about it, now wasn't that familiar? "John, what is it? And don't say nothing," he warned as he reached out a hand and laid it lightly on John's leg.

If it was even possible John tensed even more and his voice was curt and strained as he answered, "I had a bad experience there Sherlock; just a bully who had one too many," John avoided looking at Sherlock and he took a deep breath, mentally ordering himself to relax. One by one each of his muscles loosened and relaxed until he felt somewhat calm and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"It was a long time ago; I thought I got over it," John explained, and he wasn't lying; he had thought he'd got over it, "Though I guess I was wrong," he smiled, or grimaced really, and Sherlock searched him with his eyes; observing, deducting and cataloguing everything he saw.

"Alright, but do refrain from reacting as you just have when we arrive; I don't think our cover would survive such an event," Sherlock said, his voice its usual tone but John detected the hint of worry and concern still present. He was eternally thankful that Sherlock hadn't challenged him; he wouldn't have been able to keep himself under control if he had.

"As long as you don't try and seduce some unknowing girl I think we'll be fine," John replied, his voice sounding more relaxed and more like it normally was. He smirked as Sherlock pouted at his comment and couldn't help but laugh as Sherlock turned to him and did the traditional Dracula pose; arms raised by his head, fingers gnarled like branches and sporting a coloured set of fangs.

**...**

**...**

It took them an average fifty-nine minutes to reach The Grove, which Sherlock complained about since according to Google Maps the journey should have only taken forty-six minutes. John didn't really care how long it took, he didn't even want to be there but for the sake of the case he was swallowing his absolute terror and ploughing on like a good little Demon Soldier; and he hated his costume, he really did.

They walked up, side-by-side although it looked more like John was clinging to Sherlock, and Sherlock knocked on the door with a gloved hand. It took mere moments for the large, archaic-looking door to swing open and a rather creepy-looking staff member dressed as Renfield waved them inside, "Welcome to The Grove of Despair gentlemen," the Renfield drawled, sounding as though he was already tired of having to say such a boring line and John supposed the fella had already had to say it a couple dozen times.

Sherlock looked at the man, his almost silver eyes rapidly dissecting him, before nodding and striding away in the direction of the main hall where the sound of chattering was loudest. John gave Renfield a tight smile and hurried after Sherlock, resolutely deciding that he wasn't going to leave the detective's side for the rest of the night; and it wasn't because he was scared, it wasn't. Oh who was he kidding! He was bloody terrified and he knew it!

As he entered the rather large room he briefly noticed that Sherlock was standing near the entrance talking to what looked like a deformed scarecrow. The closer he got to Sherlock the more and more relaxed he felt and he reasoned it was because Sherlock's presence was, for him at least, calming. As he reached the taller man's side he did a double take as he finally figured out who was the deformed scarecrow, "Lestrade!"

Lestrade looked at John and gave him a lop-sided grin, "Didn't recognise me huh?" at John's surprised face he laughed and said, "Donovan threatened to find embarrassing photos of me if I wore my usual attire; said I had to blend in."

John smirked and shook his head, "Well, at least Sherlock's not the only one who's obsessed with this bloody season!" Lestrade raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock in amusement.

"So I was right, you did insist on costumes! You wanted to play dress-up!" Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock glowered at him and then glared at John who began to laugh quietly, "I should have known you'd go for the dramatic though."

Sherlock pouted and it looked so strange because of his outfit, and the make-up and the fangs that Lestrade had to look away before he fell apart in fits of laughter; John too had to do the same as Sherlock said petulantly, "It would have been harder to get information if I hadn't dressed up; it's simple logic."

"Of course Sherlock," John said patronisingly, his voice tinged with amusement, and Sherlock glared at him again but it didn't bother John in the slightest; he actually found it kind of endearing really.

Sherlock was about to open his mouth when what looked to be a partially decapitated woman up on the small stage in the room and declared into a microphone, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm so very happy to see so many 'unfamiliar' faces here tonight," there was a half-hearted titter of laughter amongst the crowd, "and I am happy to announce that our annual Halloween Hunt will begin in the next five minutes. The members of staff will be hiding away shortly and it is your job to figure out the creepy clues to find them and bring them back here. The first person, or team, to find three staff members will win first prize, with whoever discovers two in second place and those who discover one will get a gift-card," there was a polite clapping as the woman nodded and said in conclusion, "Happy Halloween everyone, let's get started!"

"So much for figuring out who the killer is," Lestrade muttered as he looked around searching for someone, "I'm going to have to see if I can organise it so Donovan and I can observe rather than participate," he disappeared into the now moving crowd and left Sherlock and John alone to talk in private.

"What are we going to do Sherlock?" John asked, he didn't want to do this 'Halloween Hunt', it sounded as though the end result would be a mad-man wearing a Hockey-mask stabbing the winner with a kitchen-knife; he was going to murder Harry for making him watch those bloody Jason films!

"We are going to hunt John! What else?" Sherlock declared as he moved away over to where the clues were being put up on the clear notice board, "'Echoes of drip, drip is all around you, ice in your veins and fire in your heart, reflective sheens to blind you if you see: 3259, 14:22:1.' Not very original, though it does save us time."

Sherlock turned around and hurried away, barely pausing long enough for John to catch up, and began to ascend up the spiral staircase which would take them to the second floor. John for the most part was busy trying to not walk into one but he spared enough of his attention to ask, "What does it mean?"

"Oh John!" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation, "It's really quite simple; our first staff member is in the en suite of room 88."

John would have stared at the taller man had it not been for the fact that someone rudely ran into him and he stumbled to the side. He didn't have enough breath to shout out to Sherlock and the last he saw of the man was him ascending the staircase and not looking back.

**...**

**...**

By the time John managed to escape the clutches of one particularly handsy old woman he knew without a doubt that he wouldn't find Sherlock anytime soon, so he did the only thing he could think of; he went to have a look at the second clue, hoping that he could figure it with his limited intelligence.

When he reached the notice board he realised one thing; there was about nine people stood in front of it blocking the second clue so he had to push his way through until he reached the front and read the clue. Re-reading it over and over, making sure he had read it correctly, a familiar feeling of abject fear began to worm about in his gut and John hurried away from the notice-board; finding the nearest open window and taking in lungfuls of cold air to try and calm himself.

Once he was sure that he wasn't about to throw-up, or faint, he turned his mind to the second clue, dissecting it and trying to figure out what it all meant; but he wasn't Sherlock and he always hated riddles, "_'Run rabbit, run run away, don't stray from the path down by the Brooke. Harker's lay in wait where you can't navigate. Close the door and bar the windows, flickering candles guide your way'_ what the hell does it mean!"

Leaning against the window frame he stared forlornly out the window at the dark surrounding grounds of the hotel, not really seeing it so he did a double take as his eyes picked out a solitary light about twenty-feet from the window. He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the window, surprised when he spied another light about ten-feet behind the first one, he stared at it and was startled when it flickered and died; flickering candles guide your way! Of course!

Hurrying away from the window John crossed the room, deftly dodging people and trailing costumes until he came to the archaic-looking door and he shot out of it and out into the dark night. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change in lighting before hurrying towards where he'd seen the first light. It took him almost five minutes to find it and he looked at the ground closely, picking out a faded tarmac path running alongside the flickering 'candles'.

Without hesitation, his mind focused on the clue and finding Sherlock, John set off, following the lights for what felt a century before he found himself outside a house which had a single flickering light in the upstairs window. Suppressing a smirk of achievement he hurried to the door and pushed it open, surprised when it swung open; he gave the downstairs of the house a quick check, flickering the light switches only to find they didn't work, before ascending the stairs carefully and cautiously.

Reaching the landing he padded along it, his boots making hardly a sound on the wooden floor, until he reached the room he'd seen the light in only minutes ago. He pushed the door open gently and entered the room, looking about himself but he saw no-one; sighing in annoyance at his stupidity, John turned around only to have the door slam shut, locking him in.

The single flickering light in the room; spluttered and dimmed, but John dived at it and almost curled into himself as he collapsed next to it in paralysing fear. He reached out a shaking hand in an effort to reach the light before it died but his hand never touched it. He was slammed backwards into the wall beneath the window, winded and stunned, as something began to constrict his breathing. He couldn't talk, couldn't call for help; couldn't breathe.

As everything began to get dimmer and dimmer John thought he heard the sound of someone downstairs but he couldn't think properly as whatever it was that was crushing him began to touch him; he shivered and tears began to break free of their confines of his eye lashes and roll down his cheeks. The only sound he could make was a desperate sound of keen of terror and fear, and then a whimper of pain as it began to scratch him, boil him, burn him and make him bleed.

"John!"

He knew that voice, he was sure he did; it made him feel safe, usually, made him feel alive and happy. But he couldn't breathe, couldn't call back; couldn't beg for him to make him safe... Sherlock!

"John!" the sound of thundering footsteps echoed around the room as someone came careening up the stairs and rammed into the door; the wood splintering but not giving, as though it was being held up by some supernatural power, "John! Answer me!"

"Sher..." John croaked, his voice was so weak, so pained, so constricted that he was sure Sherlock hadn't heard him, but he was wrong as the detective renewed his efforts to ram the door open; so determined was the detective that mere seconds after John's croaked call, Sherlock came careening into the room. The cape he was wearing whirled around him dramatically and John could have cried in relief at the sight of his best friend.

The thing, whatever it was, seemingly disappeared and John was left coughing and choking on the air his lungs took in mouthfuls of air. Sherlock hurried over to him and crouched down next to him, concern and worry clearly etched on his face; it seemed that the light had returned when Sherlock had entered the room.

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, reaching out a hand and placing it lightly on one of John's shaking arms. John couldn't answer him, it hurt to breathe and he settled for shaking his head and pulling the detective closer to him; burying himself in Sherlock's cape, shivering uncontrollably.

"Come on, we need to leave," Sherlock said suddenly, he looked around the room and reached out his other hand so as to help John stand only his hand never touched John.

John watched in horror as Sherlock was bodily thrown away from him with so much force that the detective slammed into the wall opposite him, landing in a heap on the ground and not moving, "Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he scrabbled towards to the unmoving detective. He reached out and pulled on Sherlock's shoulder until he could see the detective's slack face, gasping in fear and worry as he noticed a small cut on his forehead. Quickly John pulled off the cloth he'd tied around his arm to complete his Demon Soldier image and pressed it against the cut, stemming the dangerously strong flow of blood. He looked around himself, hoping desperately that someone was going to come running up the stairs and rescue them both; but his hope was entirely misplaced because the door, which Sherlock had splintered because of his determination to get into the room, shut again, but slowly this time as though the thing was taunting John.

John looks down at the detective, staring into the slack face, and inside he feels something beginning to form; not the usual paralysing fear he normally felt whenever the thing was around him. No, this was something different, this was something hot and seething and it was building and building, more and more, stronger and stronger until he snarled in absolute anger.

He rose up slowly and turned around, protecting Sherlock with his body, and growled, "You want me you fuck! Well tough 'cause you fucking can't have me!"

The light in the room flared, growing brighter and brighter as John snarled in protective anger, "You can't have me so fuck off! Go! I banish you!" The sound of screaming, hissing, snarling and snapping echoed around the room as a fierce wind whipped his hair and froze his skin, but he didn't stop; he just thought of Sherlock, Sherlock hurt, and he raised his voice, shouting, "I banish you shadow of the dark! I banish you! I cast from my hearth and from my life! Do not challenge my will, give me no more strife! I order you to be on your way! In this realm you can no longer stay!"

An almighty scream deafened John as he collapsed onto the floor just as the windows exploded with so much force that shards of glass came hurtling towards him and the prone Sherlock. Instinctively John dived onto Sherlock and protected him from the worst of the shards until a deathly silence fell in the room.

The last thing John recalled before he lost consciousness was the sound of shouting, and Sherlock's hand touching his face as the detective finally came to.

**...**

**...**

The sound of beeping was what woke him up from his comfortable sleep, it was definitely the sound of beeping; but the hand that was firmly grasping his own kept him awake. Blearily he opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the room and slowly turned his head to the side; catching sight of a set of silvery-grey eyes staring at him. If he had had the energy to be startled then he would have been but John felt so tired that he settled for blinking rapidly before giving the detective a real, if a little tired, smile which Sherlock returned.

"You've been unconscious for almost three days," Sherlock said quietly, his hand tightening slightly on John's own, "I was scared you wouldn't wake up," John frowned at Sherlock and opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock cut him off, "I know; a silly, emotional thing to think but I couldn't help it... not after what I saw..."

John tensed up automatically but the usual fear that accompanied any comments relating to 'it' didn't develop, leaving him a little confused until he remembered what he'd said; what he'd done. He blinked again and swallowed thickly, his throat was so dry, and it seemed that Sherlock was astute enough as to realise he was thirsty and quickly poured him a glass of water. Taking a couple of small sips John swallowed again and found that it didn't hurt as much; speech wouldn't be so difficult now.

"It's always been in my life," John whispered, his voice soft and low, and Sherlock stared at him; surprised and confused as to why John was talking to him, but he didn't interrupt so John continued, "When I was a baby I never cried; it scared me too much, and it used to cry at me..." John shivered and Sherlock scooted closer to him, almost as though he could rid John of the bad memories with his close proximity, "I realised I was different to other kids when I used to see the 'other' children when no-one else could; it scared my mam and she made me promise to never mention it to people. She was right to make me promise; I'd have been committed otherwise," John gave a bitter chuckle and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but thought better and closed it again; allowing John to continue unimpeded, "When I was fourteen they took me to Alton Towers for the day; it was brilliant to begin with. I went on the newest rides and had a brilliant time; but when I was on the Skyride it... it kind of broke down and I was trapped in one of the cabin's about thirty-feet up in the air. I was so scared, but I still didn't cry and shout for help, I hid in the corner but it didn't help... nothing ever did... it found me and it..." John swallowed thickly and he tears began to form in his eyes, but they didn't come free, "it hurt me..." he finished quietly.

Sherlock didn't speak, he simply reached out with the glass of water and John took another couple of sips, nodding his thanks to the detective; he didn't want to continue but after what happened to Sherlock, that night, he owed him at least this, "It didn't bother me much... after that time... but when I was in college; my second year my mate, Haley, dragged me to the annual Halloween party. I hadn't even wanted to go in the first place but Haley was stubborn; too stubborn really," John shook his head at the memory of Haley forcing him into that God-awful costume! "Joey Lathers; the one who's so thick that you can't help but wonder how they managed to get into college, stopped me from going in. He didn't like me because I knocked him out in a fist-fight a few months beforehand; it wasn't like he didn't deserve it though... anyway, he wouldn't let me in and I ended up heading back home... well I tried to at least..."

John's grip on Sherlock's tightened, so much so that it was almost painful, but Sherlock didn't say anything about it and John didn't realise as he continued to speak; staring at the wall opposite him, lost in the past, "It chased me in the dark, caught me... did things to me... well, let's just say that what it did wasn't that nice... when I came too it was morning and I was lying in the middle of the wooded area of the hotel grounds; barely clothed," John blinked as the tears finally broke free and rolled down his face, "I didn't tell anyone what happened, no-one would have believed me anyway; I went to medical school and then signed up and it didn't bother me for almost fourteen-years... but I was shot and sent back to the UK; where it was... In Afghanistan I was safe; well, as safe as you can be when you're getting shot at and nearly being blown apart on a daily basis, but here it was waiting for me-" he broke off abruptly as the door opened and a nurse poked her head through, smiling when she saw John was awake.

"Hello Mister Watson-" she started but Sherlock cut her off sharply.

"It's Doctor Watson if you don't mind," he said coldly, not bothering to look at the woman, instead he kept his attention focused on John as the nurse entered the room and did the routine checks, "remember to close the door on your way out."

If John hadn't have been reliving some horrible memories then he might have laughed at Sherlock's comment; though he most probably would have told him off for being so rude. He blinked rapidly and Sherlock said softly, "Continue please John... I would like to know what happened after you returned from Afghanistan."

He would never had told anyone else this, but this was Sherlock and he felt obligated to tell Sherlock; so he did, "It bothered me when I was in that flat before I moved in with you, but it wasn't that bad; it was mostly just scratches and throwing things. When I moved in with you it just... went away; you were like a charm or something. It wouldn't come near me when you were around; I was safe with you and since Afghanistan I was able to relax and feel something other than fear. I was happy," John smiled and looked at Sherlock's surprised face, "You were the best thing that has ever happened to me because you made me feel so, so safe..."

It took Sherlock a few moments to recover from the shock of John's admission and he asked curiously, "If I was protecting you from this... this entity, then why did it attack you during the Hunt?"

John shrugged, he didn't know and he didn't really care because he'd stood up to it; he'd chased it away, not the other way around, "I don't know; maybe it was fed up of you protecting me? Maybe the Hunt was the perfect opportunity? It was on Halloween afterall; I've read that... that those sorts of things are stronger around Halloween..." he shrugged again.

Sherlock stared at him for another minute longer before asking, "It's not coming back is it?"

John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes, not a hint of fear in his gaze; only determination, strength and fondness for the detective, "No," he said firmly, "No it's never coming back."

**...**

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_**END

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**Well! It's complete at long last! This was so hard for me to write (but it wasn't because of the content or anything actually; it was because my fingers feel like blocks of bloody ice!) Anyway, tell me what you think of this overall and don't hesitate to call it a load of buggary... (please hesitate :p)**

**Hope you liked it and please comment on this; Kasey.**


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